


Stay (Forever)

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Series: Standalone Stories [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, And John is a dog trainer, Love at First Sight, M/M, Sherlock has a dog, That's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: Sherlock adopts a dog named Toby who has separation anxiety and when he takes Toby on a kidnapping case rather than leave him home, he discovers Toby has a gift for crime solving.The Met, however, won't let Toby work on cases unless Sherlock takes him through the Met approved obedience program, which is taught by the famous veterinarian and behaviorist, Dr. John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I would never write a "meet cute." Clearly, my promises are worth shit. Blame (or thank!) my beta team for allowing trope-ism to infect me: Jenn, Katie, and Tia. They are, in a word, magnificent. Shitty promises and trope-ism infection aside, not only do they make my writing better, they make the process of writing much more enjoyable.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iamlampyao3)

* * *

Sherlock glanced at his watch. Greg was supposed to be here watching Toby, but he’d been running late when he called Sherlock at fifteen to six, which was five minutes after Sherlock had decided to skip the introductory dog training class if he didn't hear from Greg within the next five minutes. He’d wanted to skip it anyway when he read the instructor’s syllabus yesterday and discovered that he would be leaving Toby at home during the initial session. _First class is humans only, but I promise to explain why. ☺_

The smiley face significantly reduced his credibility in Sherlock's opinion, but nobody had asked for his opinion.

Dr. John Watson, veterinarian and canine behaviorist, was supposedly the best multi-agency dog trainer in England, but Sherlock didn’t see how you could learn to train your dog if you left the dog at home. But Greg had made it clear—rather, Superintendent _Tolland_ had made it clear—that Toby would not be the world’s only Consulting Dog Detective as far as the Metropolitan Police were concerned unless he was put through the training program and furthermore, since the program was so expensive, Sherlock would be paying for it himself.

Sherlock had grudgingly paid the astronomical fee of £3,000, but paid it all the same. It wasn’t the cost that bothered him. It was the idea that anyone would think that Toby was not already the most amazing, intelligent, brilliant, talented dog in all the world, especially after he proved it by helping Sherlock solve a kidnapping. In fact, Toby had been significantly more helpful on that case than most of the officers assigned to it, but Sherlock wisely kept those feelings to himself.

The little girl, barely more than a toddler, had already been missing for 40 hours when Greg called Sherlock in. Her stepbrother, aged twenty-two, had taken her from the family home after everyone had gone to sleep. He had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at nineteen, and was considered dangerous, but unarmed.

Armed police units had been deployed to the derelict neighborhood where the kidnapper had holed up, but Sherlock knew the minute the police surrounded the row of flats where the boy and his sister were, the child would be taken hostage and negotiations could take hours. It was unlikely her brother had taken adequate care of the girl. She might be dehydrated or injured. Sherlock didn't see the point of wasting time with all that when he could just sneak in and grab her.

Sherlock had only brought Toby along because he suffered from separation anxiety and Sherlock could not bear to leave him at home. At the time, it had only been two weeks since Sherlock had adopted him from the shelter. On a whim, he snagged a blanket from the evidence closet that belonged to the kidnapped girl and let Toby sniff it. After a frustrating few minutes of Toby smelling it from every possible angle, holding it down and flipping it over to the other side, then smelling that side as thoroughly as the other, Sherlock took him to a street near the flats, out of sight of the police.

Toby had unerringly led Sherlock through a warren of alleys, in the back door of the house and directly into the kitchen. The little girl was tied to a rusted and oily car engine by a length of nylon rope—one end tied around a wrist and the other around a foot. She was lethargic, and her eyes were red rimmed, the corners of her mouth caked with dry spit. When she saw Sherlock, her eyes opened wide with fear and she began to tug on her restraints. Sherlock crouched down, worried she would scream, but then Toby walked up to her and lay down next to her. She froze and then he licked her knee and she smiled, one chubby hand going out to touch his head. She looked back at Sherlock and her smile wavered only slightly.

When Sherlock crouched down next to them, he discreetly pulled out a knife and cut the rope binding her ankle, but to cut the one around her wrist, he would have to bring the knife within her field of vision and he was unsure how she would react to it. Instead, he cut the rope where it was tied to the engine while she was distracted by Toby who was enthusiastically licking her hands and arms and face. She giggled, and when he put his finger on his lips in the universal gesture for _ssh_ , she'd copied it, camaraderie shining in her tired eyes. He'd whispered, face solemn, _we must be very quiet so I can take you home to your Mummy and Daddy_ and when he offered her his arms, she climbed into them. Child in hand, Sherlock and Toby were out the door before the kidnapper even realized he wasn’t alone.

Sherlock and Toby had been in the paper, after an interview with the grateful parents, who had paid Sherlock handsomely. In the newspaper photo, the little girl was wrapping her arms around Toby whose mouth was hanging open in a way that looked remarkably like a smile. Sherlock had been smiling at Toby.

That newspaper article and photo were the reason the Superintendent had gotten involved and why Sherlock was now waiting for Greg to get here to watch Toby so Sherlock could go to the first class of the dog training program that required you to leave your dog at home.

~*~

Sherlock was late for the class, though not late enough to miss anything important. The seven other people in the hall were each standing up to give their names, their job description, and the name and breed of the dog who would help them fulfill that job. It was the kind of socializing that Sherlock hated most—stilted, embarrassing, and completely lacking in information that was actually helpful. Having gathered everything he wanted to know about his classmates, which was almost nothing, Sherlock turned his attention to the instructor.

Dr. Watson was half sitting, half leaning against the desk on the dais at the front of the room, his hands clasped in his lap, eyes brightly turning to each person as they stood and spoke, smiling and nodding and making pleased little sounds at what they said, making them feel relaxed and welcome.

Dr. Watson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he smiled constantly. He had wrinkles everywhere, managing to look both middle aged and boyishly handsome. He was a short man—Sherlock estimated 170 centimeters in his stockinged feet and maybe five centimeters more with his shoes on. His hair had been dishwater blonde once and was now streaked with grey and although both of those were dull colors, together they made his hair into something extraordinarily bright. His face had three days worth of whiskers and once or twice before getting to Sherlock, he’d grinned wide enough to show the entire row of his top teeth, which were as bright as everything else about him. He was confident and whether that was because he was much lauded for what he did or was just naturally that confident wasn’t clear.

Sherlock found himself wanting to hear those little sounds of interest and pleasure directed at him. As each person completed their little speech and sat, Sherlock found his heart beating faster and his palms sweating, a feeling of anxiety washing over him. He wanted Dr. Watson's eyes on him, but as each student stood, spoke, and then sat again, Sherlock's anxiety grew—he felt the prickle of sweat underneath his arms, the heat of his flushed face, and every bit of saliva in his mouth dried up. He wanted to take his jacket off—the room was overheated against the soggy cold outside, but without a suit jacket he felt strangely _undressed_ , as though he was exposing more than he wanted. A sharp suit was one of the tools he used to solve cases—people were more likely to speak to someone who looked neat and confident than they would to someone who looked like they'd just rolled out of bed. Outside of work, he favored pajama bottoms, t-shirts, jeans and sneakers, and future classes would, presumably, include working with Toby, and Sherlock wasn't going to train him in a £500 suit. Tonight, though, he was glad he'd kept his suit on instead of opting for casual clothes.

When all but two of them remained to introduce themselves, Watson glanced briefly at Sherlock before turning back to the woman who was standing to speak, and Sherlock felt his face grow hot. When the doctor did a subtle but obvious (to Sherlock, at least) double take, the heat in Sherlock’s face intensified. He covered his discomfiture by giving in to the urge—now bordering on need—to take his jacket off. He laid it neatly over the back of his chair and pushed down the temptation to roll up his cuffs.

When he looked back up, his eyes were immediately drawn to Dr. Watson, and found Watson watching him back. They both averted their eyes immediately, and Watson refocused his attention on the woman speaking. Sherlock took advantage and watched, with giddy delight, the sudden change in the doctor's easy posture. He crossed his arms, pulled his lips in over his teeth—his left leg began to jiggle and then—again—his eyes flicked to Sherlock's. This time they held each other's gaze. It was only a few seconds but it was enough to make it clear to Sherlock that the attraction was mutual. Sherlock took a deep breath and told himself sternly he was here for Toby, not to hook up for sex, but his prickly, too-hot skin suggested killing two birds with one stone.

The woman who was last to speak sat down and although Sherlock stood up automatically, he found that everything he'd planned to say had disappeared and the sudden silence flustered him. His face turned red and he tried again, but what came out of his mouth when he opened it was—

"Ah. Er—"

He grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut for a second or two before opening them and trying again, but before he could speak, a woman in the front row said, "You’re that detective!" and every pair of eyes in the room zeroed in on him.

Sherlock grabbed onto the lifeline her recognition gave him, and he sagged slightly in relief before gathering himself together. Shoulders back, chin up, he gave a brief but elegant explanation of what he did and why he was there. After he'd sat down, the woman who'd recognized him opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Watson broke in before she could say more than a few words.

"Remind me to get your autograph after class," Dr. Watson said with a wink. "Now that we all know each other, let’s move on to why we’re here. The reason I asked you to leave your dogs at home is because this course isn't just about teaching your dog to obey commands. A successful dog/human team, whether he's your pet or your coworker, requires the two of you to develop a relationship, and that relationship will be based on an intuitive understanding of each other just as much, if not more than, learning commands that one of you gives and the other obeys.

"But how do you get to know someone, to develop that deep relationship when the two of you speak separate languages? Well, that's where I come in. I’m going to teach you how to speak in a language your dog can understand."

~*~

It was after eight when the class broke up. Dr. Watson stood at the door and said goodbye to each person as they left. Everyone but Sherlock, Dr. Watson, and a woman who'd said she worked in hospice care. The woman followed Dr. Watson from the door to the dais at the front of the class, talking the whole time, while Dr. Watson nodded politely, but Sherlock felt Watson's eyes falling on him periodically. He pretended to be looking for his phone, digging through his coat pocket, and his trouser pockets and finally pulling it out of his inside jacket pocket where it'd been the whole time. He looked down, at a loss how to look busy with it and then saw there was a text message from Greg.

_I'm heading out,_ he wrote, _Have to stop by the office on my way home._ The time stamp was three minutes ago. Sherlock hadn't felt the vibration because he was too busy pretending to look for it. _The irony_ , he thought drolly, self-deprecatingly.

Sherlock typed out a quick response: _Did you walk him before you left? –SH_

_We ambled around Regent's park about an hour ago,_ Greg responded. He must've still been at the flat or only then getting into his car because Greg didn't text while driving. He wasn't good at either task—attempting to do both at the same time would've been catastrophic.

Sherlock put his phone away and looked up. The woman was still talking to Dr. Watson who walked up onto the dais and began putting away his laptop and turning off the projector. His body language said _preparing to leave_ , but she continued to talk and he stood there with his laptop bag over his shoulder, occasionally shooting Sherlock helpless looks and wry smiles that said _give me a few more minutes_ . Sherlock pursed his lips, knowing that he couldn’t put off leaving indefinitely without looking even more like a schoolboy with a crush although, broadly speaking, he supposed that’s what he was. Plus, for whatever reason, he didn't want anyone to know that there was a _thing_ between him and Dr. Watson. Staying after class to talk to him about dog training was one thing. Staying after class to discuss where they might have what was bound to be an incredibly good shag was quite another thing, a _private_ thing.

As the minutes ticked by, he began to feel less confident that he'd correctly interpreted the looks Dr. Watson had given him. He dithered as long as he could, trying to look busy while standing awkwardly, but when his watch showed it was going on half eight, he began to put on his winter things—first his coat, then his scarf, then his gloves, everything drawn out twice as long as it normally took for him to put them on. He gathered up the rest of his things and started for the door. Before he walked through it, he cast one last, longing look towards the front of the room and found that Dr. Watson was waving him up to the front, setting his laptop bag back down on the desk and, abruptly, telling the woman something that Sherlock couldn't hear but he didn't need to. The woman's face fell, but then she nodded and they smiled at each other. Dr. Watson put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle push and then waved Sherlock up to the front of the room again. When the woman lifted her hand in goodbye, Dr. Watson gave her an absent wave and a tight smile. When he saw Sherlock begin to walk to the front, his smile brightened and Sherlock's breath caught.

They'd had no private conversation. They'd not been within twenty feet of each other all night. And yet—Sherlock felt _something_ when he looked at Dr. Watson. It was like the gut feelings he got sometimes on cases. He never guessed, because he based his deductions on what he could actually _observe._ Yet sometimes , when the trail faltered and went cold, and even though it might take him hours or even days, Sherlock would sift through all the information he had accumulated, and then, out of nowhere, he'd simply _know_ . Know that he needed to interview this person again. Know that he needed to go back to the crime scene. Know that there was _something_ that would put it all together.

Looking at Dr. Watson, he felt that same thing, the _knowing_ in the face of very little evidence otherwise. If he walked up there and spoke to Dr. Watson in private, something _special_ would play out between them and as the knowledge sank in, he was overcome by a lightness, a giddiness that left him breathless. He realized he was, in fact, holding his breath and let it out in a whoosh before he began to walk towards the front of the class.

Dr. Watson had seated himself back on the desk, his hands gripping the edge and one foot swinging in a short, lazy curve in and out and in again. He grinned at Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, nodding in his direction, finding his mouth also stretched into a grin.

"John," the doctor said and Sherlock nodded, and repeated the name quietly, drawing it out as though he was savoring it. He walked closer to the desk, dropping his bag on the floor near the desk, standing back, waiting for the next move to play out. Sherlock couldn’t help but let his eyes rove hungrily over John's face and his body. He didn't hide it, but he kept it subtle.

"What would you like me to autograph?" Sherlock asked, stepping one foot closer.

John looked up at the ceiling pretending to think and then, eyes dancing with mischief, leaned back on his elbows and let his legs fall open.

Sherlock froze, a grey haze tearing through his mind, leaving him momentarily dumb.

"What did you think of the class?" John asked in a murmur.

"Gorgeous," Sherlock said absently. "Utterly brilliant."

"Yes," John said absently. "I thought so, too."

Sherlock, unaware of having crossed the remaining feet between them, planted both hands on the desk, trapping John between them and leaned forward. John licked his lips and reached forward to fist a hand in the fabric on each side of Sherlock's open coat, and tugged him more snugly between his legs.

"What was it you wanted me to autograph, again?" Sherlock muttered with a smirk.

"Oh, right here is good," John said, touching a fingertip to his thin pink lips.

"Perfect," Sherlock whispered and they leaned towards each other, crossing the last few inches. Sherlock saw John's mouth open slightly right before they touched and, with a comfort and familiarity that had no knowable source, he fit his mouth against John's and swallowed the happy sigh John let out as they finally came together.


	2. Chapter 2

For Sherlock, kissing was the ultimate determiner of sexual attraction. He might like a man, find him attractive, want to go to bed with him and discover, when they kissed, that he felt entirely uninterested after all. He’d learned that he tended to think he was attracted to someone whose body or personality was made up of things that Sherlock found attractive in general, but that true sexual attraction often had no clear source Sherlock could determine. For instance, when Sherlock took in all the men he’d ever had any sexual interest in, whether it was consummated or not, he found a type emerging. He liked slight young men with large, dark eyes, artistic men who had a circle of friends who drank wine in their tiny student flats and had intelligent arguments about existentialism and pop culture and gossiped about each other and to each other in a lighthearted way that bonded them rather than tore them apart. He didn’t like dancers, actors, or singers, but loved men who sculpted, painted, or wrote, who had their own money and an honorable way to earn it. He didn’t like needy or whiny men or overtly gay men who called people _darling_ , not because Sherlock was embarrassed about being gay, but because he was embarrassed by people who acted silly in public. He liked men who enjoyed dancing in nightclubs and kissing in the shadows of buildings, who laughed at Sherlock’s jokes, watched him wide-eyed when he was brilliant, who didn’t take it personally when he was distracted by an experiment, who knew not to call or text him when he was working on a case, who knew not to show up uninvited either, but who were fine with Sherlock breaking into their own flat or house to use them as a sounding board. He liked men who were idealistic about love and didn’t hold grudges.

Sherlock had discovered that he had, in fact, an awfully specific type of man he was attracted to and John Watson bore not even a passing resemblance to that type, and yet—

When their lips touched, they opened their mouths in tandem, like lovers already familiar with how their mouths fit together, and the question of their mutual attraction was put instantly to rest. Between one breath in and the exhale out, he found himself pressed right up against John, the warmth of their bodies bleeding into each other and the warmth of arousal bleeding through Sherlock's body. John tucked one of his hands just inside the back of Sherlock’s trousers, a move at once shamelessly erotic but oddly chaste, as though what John _really_ wanted was to get a handful of Sherlock's arse, but was trying to pretend that he didn't.

John's other hand was fisted in the fabric of Sherlock's shirt at the small of his back. Sherlock's hips drew a lazy arc against John's and John made one of those small humming sounds of pleasure that Sherlock had longed to hear. They kissed, open mouths breathing humidity in and out, while their lips continued to sip at each other, and their tongues to drink deeper. John had set a languid pace, but after a few minutes, Sherlock grew greedy and took control of the kiss, one hand cupping the back of John's head, the other gripping his jaw.

John moaned in appreciation and wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s thighs. When Sherlock found himself grabbing John’s arse with both hands so that he could grind the two of them together, he knew they had to leave or risk shagging on the desk, and as much as he would've enjoyed that, New Scotland Yard wasn't the place for it. He pulled away from the kiss with a ragged breath and said, "My flat is—would you—" and John groaned against Sherlock’s throat in what Sherlock took to mean _yes_.

~*~

Sherlock was not immune to loneliness and want of companionship, and had even developed and maintained long-term relationships. They weren’t friendships, precisely, although they often started that way. Sherlock had the inadvisable habit of sleeping with all the men he made friends with, and for the first few months it was wonderful, and he was wonderful, and the other man thought he was wonderful and told him so constantly, and the sex was fucking brilliant and Sherlock was, for a time, completely sucked into the other person’s orbit. But gradually that keen interest began to fade, and the other person’s adoration became tainted with frustration.

Sherlock was not, at the best of times, thoughtful of other people’s needs or expectations. He wasn’t _purposefully_ unthoughtful. And he wasn’t _fickle_ , despite what his brother Mycroft said about him. He didn’t mean to hurt people, to make them feel unwanted or unloved. He just—well, his focus tended to be a bit obsessive and made people feel so special that when he began to come out of the fog of mutual obsession, they didn’t like it. Understandable, really. He was a fantastic shag and looked it, too, but he worked hard to keep from showing his feelings or thoughts because of the work he did and also, in general, because he hated being vulnerable. He was self-aware enough to realize that. He’d been the cause of every broken relationship in his life, including friendships when he was in school, all because of the intensity with which he focused on things other people couldn’t see, and couldn’t ignore the truths those things spelled out to him. It was exciting to his lovers, at first, to find themselves worshipped so ardently by Sherlock’s ravenous desire for information. When that cooled, and Sherlock found other things to focus on, they seemed to believe that Sherlock should have warned them about it, even though he did. Or tried to warn them. _I’m terrible at relationships. I’ll be all over you one minute and completely ignore you the next._

It had taken Sherlock many years to figure out why his warnings were never taken seriously and why he was subsequently blamed for the very thing he warned them about. It was his last boyfriend who, when breaking up with him, had given him a piece of jarring insight. _You said you were rude and likely to ignore me, but for six weeks you were the exact opposite. I thought you were just being insecure when you said that._

_Oh,_ Sherlock had said, his brow furrowed, and mouth turned down, _thanks for that information as I’m sure it will be helpful in the future_  and that’s when Soren had slapped him and said _do not contact me ever again_.

Four miserable days later, Soren had contacted him, and they’d had a brilliant shag on the floor of his living room, and then three more times after that. Soren contacted him each time and, each time, Sherlock went, though he knew he shouldn’t. He was lonely after so long with someone else in his pocket. Sex was, at least, a way of pushing that away.

He’d put an end to it, though, said no the next time Soren called, and ignored all his phone calls and texts until they’d stopped. The last one had been six weeks ago. He’d moped and sulked and been particularly rude to Donovan at a crime scene until Greg had taken him aside and lectured him about not treating people like shit if he wanted them not to think he was an arrogant arsehole, even if he actually _was_ an arrogant arsehole. But Greg had known him a long time, and he could see the unhappiness in Sherlock’s eyes, and said, only half serious, _why don't you get a dog?_ That’s how he’d ended up with Toby, a part German Shepherd, part Labrador Retriever mutt with a nose of such exquisite usefulness that Sherlock found himself paying £3,000 for it.

It was money well spent, he thought, as he and John gathered up their things, bodies listing towards each other as they walked, hands brushing, completely unaware of anything outside of each other with the exception of trying to pay enough attention not to run into things. They'd mostly succeeded until Sherlock thrust his hip against the bar of one side of the outside doors while grinning stupidly at John and found himself banging his head against it when the door refused to open. John laughed and pointed to the sign on the door Sherlock was currently glaring at. _This door locked after 8 pm. Please use other door_. There was a helpful arrow and everything.

~*~

Once they were in the cab, a tense silence enveloped them and it was compounded by the fact that the cabbie kept trying to start a conversation with them. Before getting in  Sherlock had a very clear picture of what he wanted to do when they got to his flat and that was to divest John of his clothes as quickly as possible and then slowly bring him to a fervid and mind-blowing orgasm.

Now that the post-first kiss ardor had cooled (by necessity, as riding in a cab with an erection was just not on) Sherlock found the realities of the situation floating to the surface of his mind. The steps from where he was now (the cab) to where he wanted to be (naked in bed with John), were many and the variables at any point along the way might bring the whole thing crashing down.

For example, the current tense silence—was it sexual tension or nervous tension? Now that John, like Sherlock, had the space to think about what happened and what would happen, was he realizing it was a bad idea? _Was_ it a bad idea?

If they survived the cab ride without their separate anxieties overwhelming their desire, there would be the always delicate task of determining who should pay for the cab. Sherlock had the habit of springing out of a cab and leaving whoever was behind to pay the cab driver, which was due to forgetting practical things. Sherlock decided he would pay the cab the second they pulled up in front of the flat. That decided, Sherlock moved on to the next issue—Toby.

~*~

As expected, the minute he unlocked the street door, he could hear Toby scratching at the door and barking. Mrs. Hudson had not been keen on him having a dog until she met him. Toby had climbed up on the couch next to her, settled his head in her lap and looked up with eyes full of adoration and she was persuaded otherwise. But Sherlock still winced when Toby barked and scratched at the front door when he heard someone coming in from the street.

"Someone's eager to see you," John said, and Sherlock looked around at him sharply.

"As I said, he suffers from separation anxiety," Sherlock said, feeling suddenly defensive.

When they walked in the flat door, Toby immediately jumped up. Sherlock, as always, was caught between the urge to fall on the floor and hug Toby to pieces, and the urge to turn his back to avoid being clawed to death. Toby had thus far managed to avoid all grooming attempts with an iron will and a wicked set of puppy dog eyes, so Sherlock had put off trimming his nails.

Sherlock was more embarrassed than he thought he would be. Now that John was here, Toby's enthusiastic greeting seemed like proof of Sherlock's incompetence as a dog owner and a mark against Toby himself.

"Get down," Sherlock hissed, trying to get Toby under control before John could witness too much of his undisciplined behavior.

"Watch," John said and Sherlock didn't have to look at him to see that he was smiling because he could hear it in his voice. When Toby turned his attention to John, he went to jump, and John immediately lifted his knee up so that Toby bounced off of it and back to the floor. Toby jumped again, and again John blocked him with his knee. The third time, he blocked him with his knee and then turned bodily to the side. To Sherlock it looked like John was snubbing Toby and he wanted to protest, but then Toby sat on the floor, tongue lolling, making the soft but guttural _aroof aroof_ sound that meant _please pay attention to me now before I die from lack of love_. Sherlock could see the bunching in the muscles of Toby's back and legs that meant he wanted to jump but was holding back.

John crouched in front of Toby, with a blinding grin on his face and chucked Toby gently under the chin. Toby leaned forward to lick his face and John said, "Only one," and offered up his cheek and Sherlock thought _I love you, please stay forever._ He couldn't fault Toby for the desire to lick John, nor the look of worship Toby gave to him when he'd sat back.

"You're a handsome boy, aren't you, Toby?" John said while scratching and petting Toby, finding all the places he loved best to be petted. "I hear you rescued that poor little girl! I bet you were gentle with her, a little thing like that, weren't you? Such a sweet boy and such a good boy, too. I'm so proud of you for sitting instead of jumping. You're a very smart boy, aren't you? And such a handsome one, too!"

Toby preened and turned on his best puppy dog eyes and his tail went _whack whack_ against the coffee table and Sherlock wondered if it was childish to be jealous of his dog.

"Now, Toby, Sherlock and I are going to sit on that sofa and I'm going to snog him senseless and I expect you to give us our privacy. No jumping up on the couch with us. Do you think you can do that, you sweet boy? I know you're happy he's home and I'm delighted to meet you, but come here—no, not for a kiss, I just want you to listen to me—" John's voice fell to a quiet murmur. "I've got a huge crush on your Sherlock, and if you and I are on our best behavior, I might get to have a bit more than a snog on the sofa, you know what I mean?"

Sherlock tried not to let out the shivery groan that was worming its way up his throat. He was absolutely _mad_ to be turned on by John telling Toby he wanted a snog on the sofa and maybe a bit more. God, a lot more, that's what Sherlock wanted. He wanted it _all_.

John stood and turned to Sherlock, who was still standing in his coat, one glove on, keys in hand and grinned at the stunned look on Sherlock's face.

"He's lovely," John said to Sherlock and, "I think he'll make an excellent service dog, though probably better suited to trauma service. They do have a couple of dogs at the Met who act as therapy dogs when children are involved in murder inquiries. They're not long-term therapy dogs, but when it comes to helping witness interviews with children, they're a phenomenal help."

Sherlock said, "You're phenomenal," with a degree of awe in his voice that would have embarrassed him if he hadn't already had verbal confirmation that John would shortly be snogging him and, hopefully, feeling him up as well.

A slow grin spread across John's face. "Am I?" he asked, and then reached for the keys in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock tipped them out onto his open palm and John stepped against Sherlock to tuck the keys into his coat pocket. Sherlock watched, mesmerized, feeling the warm, lazy curl of arousal diffuse through his body like vapor, as John took his other hand, the gloved one, and began, finger by finger, unveiling the hand beneath. When it was off, he tucked that, too, into Sherlock's coat pocket. Next, John pushed Sherlock's coat off his shoulders and took the opportunity to ruck up Sherlock's scarf and suck a kiss at the base of his throat while he did so. Sherlock gasped, eyes sliding shut, standing perfectly still while John slipped around to Sherlock's back and pulled the coat all the way off, then hung it on a hook by the door. Next was Sherlock's scarf. John untucked it and then pulled it gently off Sherlock's neck. He hung it over the hook where he'd put the coat.

Then John came around so that they faced each other again. In the corner of Sherlock's eye, he could see Toby watching the two of them with rapt attention. Suddenly, he was embarrassed, felt like he was doing something inappropriate in front of Toby, but then John put two fingers against Sherlock's jaw and turned Sherlock's focus back to himself.

"Hi," he whispered when Sherlock looked down at him. Sherlock automatically returned John's soft smile. John took his hand and turned, leading him to his own sofa. He pushed at Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock landed with a _whump_ on the sofa. John knocked his knees open and then put his own knee on the sofa seat between Sherlock's legs and leaned over him.

Toby jumped up on the sofa and began to push his head between them, but John turned his face towards Toby and said in a voice that was quiet but authoritative, "No." He said nothing else, but kept his face turned towards Toby. He didn't look disapproving, just—determined for his will to overcome Toby's will.

After about ten seconds, to Sherlock's astonishment, Toby ducked his head with one sorrowful, longing look at Sherlock, and then got off the sofa. John said, "Thank you," to Toby, who lay down on the floor next to the sofa, chin on paws, and let out a deep, meaningful sigh.

"Now, I believe I intended to snog you senseless," John said and used one hand to curl around the nape of Sherlock's neck and laid the other on the back of the couch to balance himself. Sherlock thought _I want to never, ever be without you or I'll die_ , while John's lips and tongue and then his hands slowly opened up all the most tender places in Sherlock's heart.

"Please let me take you to bed," Sherlock asked, the words coming out on a groan.

" _God_ yes," John replied and climbed off of Sherlock. The two of them meandered through the flat towards Sherlock's bedroom, Toby following mournfully in their wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had never been shy about sex, whether looking for it or having it, not even during those first mortifying encounters at boarding school. His burgeoning ability to _deduce_ had given him the advantage when it came to sussing out other boys who were gay and therefore equally invested in secrecy. Sherlock had great confidence in his good looks as well. He'd never undergone an awkward period in adolescence, much to his brother's resentment. He was tall, had always been lean; as he grew older, his face gradually lost its babyish sweetness while his lanky limbs grew long muscles and his body became wiry and strong. That gradual changing kept him from ever looking like a gawky teenager.

Therefore, it was an unhappy surprise to discover, as he led John from the sitting room to his bedroom, that he felt uncertain, perhaps even _shy_ about what was to occur once they reached their destination. Which was why he stopped abruptly in the kitchen and offered John something to drink, even though he was fairly sure the only thing he had to drink was tea, and no milk for it.

"I'm fine," John said with a knowing grin that made Sherlock scowl. John's grin turned filthy and he continued, "Although, you might want to grab a large glass of water. You'll need it when I'm through with you."

"Oh," Sherlock said dumbly, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He stood a minute, staring at John until John blushed and said, "I'm kidding," the pitch of his voice lifting at the end as though it was a question instead of a statement. Sherlock shook his head and said, "No, that's actually—yes, it's wise. Sex always does—" He cleared his throat and hid his grimace behind the cabinet door as he fetched a glass. Water in hand, they recommenced their journey to the bedroom.

There was almost no light in Sherlock's bedroom. One window looked onto the next house and Sherlock always kept the curtains drawn. The other window looked out onto Siddons Ln. and faced east, which meant the buildings opposite blocked almost all the sunlight coming in during the first part of the day. Now it was evening, and winter, and natural light was non-existent.

Sherlock set the glass of water down on the dresser while John hovered in the doorway, waiting for Sherlock to turn on the light. The click of a lamp switch was immediately followed by the buttery glow of dim light. Sherlock watched John blink as his eyes adjusted and when those eyes landed on him, Sherlock felt it under his skin; a half-nervous, half-anticipatory itch. Sherlock's name left John's lips on a sigh and Sherlock, no longer hesitant, reached out and grabbed John by both elbows and propelled their bodies together.

Or would have, if Toby hadn't been in the way.

"Goddammit, Toby!" Sherlock growled as he and John stumbled against each other.

"Sherlock!" John snapped as Toby's ears flattened against his head. "He's not done anything wrong! It's _your_ job to guide him where he needs to go, even at home."

Sherlock, chastened but indignant, muttered, "I _am_ trying to guide him—out of the—fucking— _way_."

Having picked his way around Toby, Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, glaring haughtily at John. John's eyebrows rose in amusement. "Aw," he said with all the sympathy of a jungle cat. "Did your poor ego get bruised?"

"Shut up and get over here," Sherlock demanded, his glower losing some of its intensity.

John raised an eyebrow, but acceded to Sherlock's impatience. He stepped easily around Toby and up to Sherlock, who cupped the back of his head, and bent his head so that he and John were breathing the same air. "Almost since I first saw you tonight, I've thought of having you here. In fact, I've considered seven different scenarios, but I'm at a loss as to which should win the day. Perhaps you could help me choose?"

" _Only_ seven?" John said quietly against Sherlock's lips.

"Yes, although given time, I could probably—" There Sherlock lost his train of thought because John was fitting their mouths together again. Their lips moved against each other, all sloppy and wet. Sherlock pulled away and said, "I want—" but John stole his words, his tongue licking along the seam of Sherlock's mouth. Their bodies were pressed right up against each other, but their clothes seemed unusually bulky. Sherlock scrabbled underneath John’s jumper searching desperately for skin and encountering the shirt beneath instead. With a growl of frustration, he yanked John’s shirt out of his trousers and splayed his hand flat at the small of John’s back, triumphant.

John hissed and drew away, stealing his triumph before he’d been allowed to savor it. "Your hands are bloody freezing," John chided.

Sherlock let out a dark chuckle and said, "I can think of at least three places on your body where I can warm them up."

"You're just _full_ of ideas for how this evening will go, aren't you?" John asked, his fingers nimbly working the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock's collarbone and Sherlock couldn't help the breathy _hm_ and _ah_ sounds that escaped his mouth.

John knelt to unfasten Sherlock's cuffs and said, voice raspy, "Take it off," and tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, then went to work on the placket of Sherlock's trousers.

"Wait," Sherlock said, the word high and strained. John stopped and looked up at him, eyebrows bunched in confusion and—a little impatience if Sherlock was reading him right. Sherlock reached down and cupped his elbows, drawing him up off the floor.

John was still fully dressed and Sherlock was only _sans_ shirt when Sherlock guided them down together to sit on the edge of the bed. Sherlock began taking off his shoes and nodded at John, who took the hint and began to remove his own shoes and socks. They did it quietly, side by side. There was nothing sexy about it, nothing that drove their arousal higher. Instead, they glanced at each other, faces flushed with bashfulness more than lust, but they _shared_ the bashful grins, the implicit understanding— _we're just getting started_ , and Sherlock was almost confident that John felt the same way he did. They weren't just getting started on this encounter, this _scenario_ —they were getting started on _everything_ between them. Their future, Sherlock hoped.

He wordlessly indicated John should remove his shirt and watched as he did. When he saw the wound on John's shoulder, he reached forward to press his fingers against it, fascinated.

"Afghanistan," John said, tilting his head to squint at the ceiling as though he was about to undergo an uncomfortable procedure and was trying to squelch his unease. Sherlock allowed his fingers to trace the edges of the scar. It was small, but raised with white, ropy, healed-over skin.

"Exit wound?" Sherlock asked, without looking away from the scar. When he was met with silence, he glanced up at John who raised his eyebrows and gave Sherlock a flat glare.

"What happened to seven different scenarios and three different places on my body to warm up your hands?" John asked.

Sherlock grimaced and began to open his mouth, but John surged forward and managed to wrestle the both of them onto the bed so that he was straddling Sherlock's thighs, both of them clad only in their trousers.

"I'll tell you all about it when I'm no longer desperate to get you naked," John said while finishing the job of unfastening Sherlock's trousers. He grabbed both trousers and pants and pulled them off while scooting backwards.

"You, too," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth tilting up.

John shed his trousers and pants as well and Sherlock, who had gotten under the covers, lifted them to invite John in.

~*~

One _scenario_ later, they lay side by side on their backs. Like they had when removing their shoes, they occasionally shared a diffident smile, but this time those smiles were laced with smug satisfaction. Sherlock felt like they were two boys who'd been up to no good and gotten away with it.

"What made you decide to get a dog?" John asked, apropos of nothing.

Sherlock didn't immediately answer. He’d rather not recount those months after his breakup with Soren, entertaining the hope of a reconciliation every time Soren called and asked to see him.

"DI Lestrade—" Sherlock began, then turned on his side to face John. "Do you know him? I assume you've worked with some of the officers in the Met."

"Lestrade?" John asked, making a face that Sherlock couldn't read. "I've heard of him, but we've never really met."

"Well, he suggested I get a dog," Sherlock said, one fingertip circling John's unmarked shoulder, imagining drawing it on paper.

"Why'd he suggest that?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed, sounding much like Toby when he was forced into behaving, and flopped back down on his back. "I was being an arrogant arsehole, which—according to Greg—was a symptom of loneliness."

"So you just popped off to the RSPCA and picked a dog?"

"Noooo," Sherlock said, pursing his lips with partially feigned displeasure—it was hard to be _displeased_ with John when he was lying naked in Sherlock's bed, sweat cooling on his skin. "I love dogs. My family always had a kennel full of them at any given time. Or at least it seemed that way. When I moved to London about seven years ago, I was in a grotty flat on Patmore Estate. No dogs allowed, not that I was in want of one _or_ in a position to take care of one."

"What do you mean?" John asked. It was his turn to turn to the side so he could face Sherlock, his head propped on his hand.

"I'll tell you about it some other time," Sherlock said, with a sad, wry smile.

"Ah," John said, nodding. "We all carry our war wounds."

Sherlock chuckled almost silently. "Yes, something like that. As for wanting a dog—I'd only had one dog who was _mine_ and not everyone's, when I was at home. Then I went off to school and somewhere between half term and Christmas, he died. He'd disappeared and they looked for him everywhere, put up signs throughout the local village, all that. On a walk with the estate manager to inspect all the old tenant cottages, Dad found him lying in the doorway of one of the stone outbuildings."

"God, I'm sorry. It's a misery to lose a dog."

"Yes. It really is. I think what hurt the most—it wasn't just that he'd _died_. It was that he'd died _alone_. My grief was enormous, not just because I lost him, but compounded by guilt for not being there when he needed me the most. We got him as a puppy when I was nine, and we were inseparable. Then, when I was thirteen, I was sent off to boarding school. We're not snobby aristocracy, just landed gentry, but my family were of that class who sent their boys off to boarding school."

"Were?"

" _Are_ , I suppose. My family, at least. I, on the other hand, am a poor bachelor."

John scoffed. "No trust fund to draw on?"

"Don't remind me. I'm consistently stuck between working man resentment and spoiled brat." John laughed hard at that, his face and shoulders scrunching up charmingly. "Anyway," Sherlock continued, raising his voice over John's laughter, unable to stop from grinning at the joy on John's face. He couldn't help but blurt out, "God, you really are just _extraordinary._ "

"What, me?" John asked, face still glowing with amusement. "I'm your basic middle class Englishman."

There was a pause, a slip of silence and then, "Stay," Sherlock blurted. His voice was unsteady and his insides, his guts, his heart, all of it was a shivering, shifting, tremulous mess. He was balancing on the line between Life Without John and Life With John and he desperately wanted it to be the second.

"I was planning on it," John said, his voice sleepy. He yawned.

"I mean forever," Sherlock said, sitting up, his voice urgent and emotional. He was on the verge of crying, he realized. That was unacceptable! John must say yes. Sherlock needed him to say yes. "Stay forever."

John, abruptly alert and wide eyed, pulled himself up to sitting and leaned away from Sherlock as though he'd just said he was going to breathe fire at any moment.

"When you say _forever_ , you don't just mean—"

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head earnestly. "I mean I'm in love with you. I want you to move in with me. Me and Toby. Now that I've found you, I can't—"

John shook his head and Sherlock's eyes burned hot and his throat closed up. He started to get out of bed, but John grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He was still shaking his head, but he was grinning—no, _smirking_ , the sassy minx.

"I have a dog, too, so we'll have to introduce her to Toby on neutral ground," John said, pulling Sherlock against him, running his fingers along Sherlock's shoulders, down his arms. He clasped their hands together. "I don't have steady work hours. I travel. I'm a closet malcontent. Well, I'm also a closet optimist, so—" John's smile dimmed, his face solemn and almost—angry? No, that wasn't—it was _defiance_. John's eyes were full of it—it raged and burned in his face and Sherlock knew that whether John stayed or not, Sherlock would never have anyone else like this. "If I stay—" John said finally, "forever means _forever_ to me. I'll never let anyone else have you."

"Oh my god, that's what I said!—thought, I mean. I was thinking it. I've always wanted someone like you," Sherlock gasped and lunged for John, burying him beneath his body. He pressed their naked bodies together, his forearms lying alongside John's head. They were the only thing keeping their faces apart, but that space was a bare, breathless inch. "I've wanted someone who would kill people who tried to steal me away."

"Oh, well, killing is all well and good until I end up in jail," John said and the skin around his eyes crinkled. Even with his mouth shut, Sherlock felt like John was grinning at him, that they were sharing an inside joke. Everyone else was out, was not John-and-Sherlock and so would never get the joke. John added, "I can't promise there won't be a maiming here and there, maybe a broken nose."

"God I love you," Sherlock said in a breathless rush and pressed their lips together.

"Mmph! Mf tfoo!" John managed to say before Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth and Sherlock's hands were clutching and searching all over his skin.

~*~

**Three weeks later**

Sherlock should've known that John would continue to surprise him, but when he met John's dog, he was flabbergasted. She was a Chihuahua and Terrier mix called Sophia because as a teenager, John had it bad for Sophia Loren. Sherlock stared distastefully at the small dog as she explored the house, nails click-click-clicking on the wood floors, her tail wagging nonstop, while John hauled his stuff out of the truck.

"Hey! You! Can I have a hand with these boxes Mr. Stay Forever?"

"She's really, very—extremely small, John—did they not have a full size dog for you at the shelter?" Sherlock said, eyes fixed on Sophia.

"Oh, ha ha. You just wait. She may be small, but she packs a big punch."

Sherlock whirled around and grinned at John, "Oh, she's like you then, is she?"

John made a grumpy face and Sherlock kissed it off and replaced it with a happy, pleased face, which was Sherlock's second favorite John-face. The first being the one that made the skin around his eyes crinkle.

"Help me carry these boxes up and I'll show you what else I'm packing," John said and waggled his eyebrows lewdly.

"I am so in love with you," Sherlock said.

"Of course you are."

"Are you in love with me, too?"

"Oh, don't do that needy thing. You know I am. I'm moving my shit into your flat, aren't I?"

" _Our_ flat."

"Yes,  _our_ flat. That means everything in it is also ours, so _Toby_ is ours and _Sophia_ is ours, too. So get over your small dog prejudice."

After everything had been moved in, and both men had hydrated themselves, they went into the sitting room so John could turn on the gas fire and warm up their fingers and toes. Sherlock was right behind him so when John stopped abruptly, Sherlock ran into him.

"Look, Sherlock," John said in a syrupy sweet voice, the kind that usually presaged people saying things like _wittle_ and _awww_. "Toby already knows his place."

Sherlock looked around John to see Sophia fast asleep in _his_ chair looking like a large-ish cinnamon roll or maybe a light brown coconut. Toby was sprawled at her feet, his chin pressed on the seat and in the process of sliding off the leather. There was drool involved. Sophia's head was angled towards Toby's.

"What do you mean, Toby already knows his place?"

"That's his place—at Sophia's feet."

"Are you suggesting that—" Sherlock began, drawing himself up indignantly, before John shushed him, pressed a finger against Sherlock's lips.

"I'm teasing you, love," John said. Sherlock kept scowling at the two dogs until John pressed two fingers against Sherlock's jaw and turned his attention back where it belonged.

"If I kiss you will that frown go away?"

Sherlock's eyes immediately narrowed in calculation, then he opened them wide in faux innocence. "I don't know. I think it will take much more than a kiss."

"Oh?" John asked, voice already drifting lower.

"Indeed. I think I'll need several kisses—lots of kisses— _all over,_ " Sherlock said, his voice dropping to subsonic range in gathering desire.

"Oh, well, that's easily arranged. Let's retire to _our_ bedroom and then I'll endeavor to please _my_ Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed with blissful contentment.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I moved the chapters around in case you're wondering why you got a notice of a new chapter and saw this again! Chapter 3 is now the new chapter. ;)

This handsome dog is Toby. Those of you who came along on the "It's All Fine" journey with me last year might remember that I lost my dog, Pippin, in October of last year. When I started writing _this_ story, I snatched the name Toby from the bloodhound in season four, but it was always my intention for Toby to be a mixed breed dog. The German Shepherd and Labrador Retriever mix I envisioned was a subconscious choice it seems because when I did a Google search for "German Shepherd and Labrador Retriever mix," this was the first picture in the Images results and it shocked me so much that I just stared at it for a moment.   

The reason it shocked me is because the second picture is my dog Pippin, who had to be put to sleep last October after almost thirteen years of life with me.

So...I suppose this story is my tribute to Pippin who I've apparently been writing about in the guise of Toby! (This is actually a terrible picture of Pippin, because it was taken with my old tablet, but he'll always be my handsome boy, terrible photo or not.) 


	5. Chapter 5

My friend, Meg, asked for a photo of Sophia. Well, this is Sophia, and she's actually our dog, so points to Teddy for originality! We adopted Sophia in March. I have a rule about dogs and children--if you have one, then you have to get another! She weighs 10 lbs., and, like John's Sophia, she packs a punch. She's not a shivering, bug eyed Chihuahua. Well, she does shiver if she's cold, riding in the car, has low blood sugar or there's a thunderstorm. But other than that, she's a brave, curious, little firecracker of a dog. She stole a stuffed bear from my daughter and it's as big as Sophia! But she grabs it in her teeth and shakes it violently and otherwise kicks its ass. She's amazing and having her in our life has been such a blessing. We all adore her (even my husband who said "NO Chihuahuas!" on our way to the shelter. Ha! Now when he comes home from work, he scoops her up in his arms and talks baby talk to her. My husband is six foot five inches and was a Marine. What a softie.)

Sophia is a HUGE camera hog. When you break out your camera, she always strikes a pose. My kids made a meme out of this photo:

 

I'm glad everyone enjoyed this story, and I swear I'll answer all your comments. I treasure every single one and whenever I see I have a new one, I have to read it  _immediately_. My summer has started off with a barrage of doctors' visits and household projects and I haven't gotten much writing time. We're remodeling the upstairs floors and I had to displace my office and everything is now scattered in a heap of stuff pushed at the back of my bedroom and my laptop is back on the kitchen table, which I share with my very messy daughter. *sigh* Such is life.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamlampyao3.tumblr.com/)!


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